


Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

by peristeronic



Category: Assassins - Sondheim/Weidman
Genre: Carnival, Enemies to Friends, Ferris Wheels, Friendship, M/M, Mirror Sex, Multiple Personalities, Rough Sex, The American Dream, Transformation, bad Shakespeare recitations, gratuitous shakespeare, things Sondheim wouldn’t approve of, to lovers?? if I write a sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 06:22:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14099184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peristeronic/pseuds/peristeronic
Summary: The assassins turned the Balladeer into Lee Harvey Oswald, but it turns out the change didn't stick. Lee and the Balladeer are now forced to co-exist. A look at the relationships between Lee and the Balladeer, Lee and Booth, and the Balladeer and Proprietor.





	Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

They killed the Balladeer, and from his death, Lee was born. The only thing that could be more satisfying than seeing the Balladeer dead was seeing him become what he hated: an assassin like the rest of them.

For once, they got to erase that self-satisfied smile of his. The flannel was gone, replaced by a plain white T-shirt. His guitar was gone, never to twang again. In his place was Lee Harvey Oswald, their newest--perhaps their most successful--member. But they hadn’t seen the last of the Balladeer.

Dizzy from the whirlwind of the assassination and his death shortly after, Lee fell asleep on the Balladeer’s unoccupied bed. The Proprietor didn’t have a place ready for him.

“Wakey, wakey,” the Proprietor called in the morning, pushing aside the door without waiting for an answer. “Time for your first day of summer camp!”

Inside, the Balladeer was pulling on his flannel on top of Lee’s white shirt. He picked up his guitar, which was leaning against a wall as if it had been there all the time, and strummed a G chord. He winced, finding it out of tune.

“How are you here?” the Proprietor said, narrowing his eyes. “They _destroyed_ you.”

The Balladeer smiled. “Only temporarily.”

He walked out onto the fairground, pulling his guitar strap over his shoulder. More than half of the assassins were milling around. Perhaps waiting for Lee to emerge. Squeaky was drawing a picture in the dust with a stick; Sara Jane rifling through her purse for something. Booth glanced in the direction of the Balladeer’s room as if impatient for something to happen. He froze, seeing the Balladeer. The assassins gaped.

“What did you do with Lee?” Booth demanded. He tightened his grip on his cane.

“Don’t worry,” the Balladeer said. “Lucky for you, he’ll be back. He’s still here, inside me. It’s like a timeshare. We share this body, or this shape, now.”

He gestured at himself. His hair, which had turned dark as Lee, was once again a cherubic blond. His eyes were baby blue.

“You’re supposed to be dead. Or non-existent. Gone.”

The Balladeer smiled brightly. “You can’t kill the American Dream, Booth!”

The assembled assassins rolled their eyes. Squeaky mimed gagging, but the Balladeer didn’t notice.

“Your motto here is _everybody’s got the right to be happy,_ ” he said. “What do you think I represent? You can’t kill that spirit, that hope, no matter how hard you try.”

“Yeah, yeah, and the mailman won the lottery,” Byck interrupted. “When is Lee coming back? Because I refuse to listen to one more fucking minute of your bullshit. Your goddamn American Dream, if that’s what you want to call it. You said Lee’s coming back.”

Czolgosz aimed his gun at the Balladeer’s chest. “If we turned you into Lee once, we can turn you back now.”

The Balladeer put up a hand. “I said don’t worry! You’ll get your precious assassin back. You can’t rush it. What do you see in him, anyway?”

There was a sharp retort, followed by a yelp from Moore as she dropped her gun. A bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the ground at the Balladeer’s feet, causing him to skip back.

“That won’t help!” he said. “Seriously, there’s no use trying. I know none of you like me, but take this as a second chance. For you to come to terms with what you did wrong. Violence isn’t the answer! It never is! Not now and not when you were alive.”

Two bullets struck him in the chest. He didn’t so much as stagger. Czolgosz and Byck swore in irritation, guns smoking.

“Fine, if you’re going to be like that!” the Balladeer said. “I’ll be back later. I’m not giving up on this.” He turned and stalked away.

“What the fuck,” Byck said.

“You can say that again,” Moore said.

“What the fuck,” Byck said. “I thought we fucking shut him up for good.”

Wilkes ground his teeth. All his work, undone. As irksome as the Balladeer was, it was the sudden disappearance of Lee Harvey Oswald that the couldn’t tolerate. After he had brought Lee into the fold and showed him everything he stood to gain. He’d made Lee one of them. It was _his_ work more than anyone else, he thought. His attitude was partly possessive, partly protective--but he admired him. He envied him. He wanted Lee to join their fucked up family and give them meaning.

The Proprietor clapped him on the shoulder, making him jump. He hadn’t noticed the Proprietor entering the scene.

“How did this happen?” Booth asked, rounding on the demon.

“I don’t know any more than you do!” the Proprietor said. He smiled placatingly. “I’ll figure it out, trust me. Maybe I can get Oswald back for you.”

“I hope so,” Booth said.

…

“Did you miss me?” the Balladeer asked, looking up as the Proprietor approached. He was sitting on a hard, wooden bench, eating kettle corn.

“All I wanted was one day where I didn’t have to listen to your sickeningly cheerful singing,” the Proprietor said. “Just _one_ day. Was that too much to ask?”

“I’m the Balladeer,” he said. “I’m here to tell the story.”

“And promise them that they can have everything they want if they just _believe_ in themselves and wish upon a star!” The Proprietor accompanied his mocking statement with jazz hands.

“Better than telling them they can have everything they want if they kill the president.”

The Proprietor grinned and plopped himself down on the bench, forcing the Balladeer to scoot over to make room. He pulled his legs up, then turned sideways to lay them across the Balladeer’s lap. “They’ve got to have something to believe in!”

The Balladeer rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “We almost agree on something. Almost.”

He held out his bag of popcorn for the demon to take a handful, popping it into his mouth. The demon’s teeth were unnaturally sharp and bright, one flaw in his human disguise. He wasn’t truly a carnie, the way the Balladeer was not truly a young man in blue jeans.

“You really didn’t miss me at all?” the Balladeer asked.

“Not one bit, angel.” He dug his hand in the bag of popcorn and pulled out another fistful.

…

 

When the assassins saw the Balladeer next, he was Lee Harvey Oswald. They were unwilling to trust their luck at first.

“Are you really Lee? For real?” Squeaky asked, looking at him through narrowed eyes. “You sure you’re not the Balladeer?”

Lee shuddered. “I am _not_ the Balladeer, thank god. I’m back to normal.”

A smile spread across Booth’s face. “Lee! This is the noblest Roman of them all. Welcome back.” He spread his arm wide in a benevolent, grandiose gesture.

Lee looked dubious. “Is this really where I’m going to be? Forever?”

“You’re among friends now, Lee,” Booth said. “Friends and admirers. None of us has been as famous--as infamous as you! …none since yours truly.”

“You’re back!” Hinckley appeared as if out of nowhere. “Lee—Mr. Oswald—Oswald—"

“You can call me…you can just call me Lee,” the assassin said, startled but obviously flattered by the attention.

“You see, your fame precedes you!” Booth said, beaming.

“I know I asked before,” Hinckley said, “but you were busy, and… can I have your autograph?”

Booth’s expression soured as Hinckley pulled out a pen and an autograph book. “Don’t bother him with that,” he snapped. “Let me take you on a tour of your new domain, Lee. I’m sure you have many questions.”

“I am infamous now, aren’t I?” Lee said, smiling like a cat. He signed all three names in Hinckley’s book before leaving with Booth. 

The actor was only happy when he had Lee to himself.

“At first it was only the Proprietor and I, of course,” Booth said. “For twenty years or so. I was the original. You know they only invented the Secret Service because of me?” He smiled.

“Then Guiteau came to us. He was…not the man I would have picked for company. I would have preferred if it was _you_ , for example.” He smiled ingratiatingly, his eyes traveling from the young man’s face down the rest of his body.

“Who was that? The one who had all of my books?” Lee asked.

“Hinckley is his name. John Hinckley, Jr. An amateur compared to men like ourselves,” Booth said. “You hit your mark from six stories up. A moving target.” There was admiration in his voice.

“Who else is here?”

“I will be happy to make the introductions,” Booth said, ever the Victorian gentleman. “But I want a chance to talk to you alone first, Lee. I want us to have a heart-to-heart.”

They walked through the carnival together, Booth leaning on his gold-tipped cane.

In the carnival, where no seasons passed, days and weeks bled into each other like letters written in ink on wet paper. But Lee remained himself for several days before the Balladeer re-emerged. From then on, they came and went unpredictably, each one remaining in control for a period of hours or days before forced to reluctantly cede control to the other.

“If I could stop it, I would,” Lee said between gritted teeth. “You think I haven’t tried?”

“Where do you _go_ when you’re the Balladeer?” Squeaky asked, cocking her head. “I mean, where are you when you’re not _you_?”

“I’m still in there,” Lee said. “In the back of his head. But it’s like I’m half asleep. I can see what’s going on, but I don’t have control of my body.”

“Weeeeeeird,” Squeaky commented.

…

From the top of the Ferris wheel, you could see the entire length and breadth of the carnival, and in the distance you could see nothing but blackness beyond. For a moment the Balladeer felt weightless, and then the gondola began to dip down toward the ground again. The Proprietor was standing on the platform. When the gondola reached the very bottom of the circle, he put both hands on the door and vaulted inside. The Balladeer stared at him as the gondola began to rise again.

“Don’t tell the assassins where I am,” the Proprietor said, slumping down so low in his seat that no one would be able to see him from the outside.

The Balladeer raised an eyebrow. “Why are you hiding?”

“They’re being stupid humans again,” the Proprietor groaned. “Hinckley insulted Charlie, so Squeaky’s out for his blood. Booth is taking her side, but then somehow Guiteau got involved. Byck and Moore got drunk and trashed the concession stands.”

“How can you tell the difference? They were trashy to begin with.”

“That’s not the point!” the Proprietor said. “The point is…they act like fucking children.”

“Humans,” the Balladeer said, leaning back. “I love them, but sometimes…”

“You get what I mean!” the Proprietor said. He sighed. “I just had to talk to someone who’s not a human for a minute. Someone who gets it.”

“This is why, on earth, teachers get together at five on a Friday and just start drinking.”

“Amen to that,” the Proprietor said. Then he snickered, meeting the Balladeer’s eye.

“Very funny,” the angel said. But the look the Proprietor was giving him made a corner of his mouth prick up.

They were quiet for a moment before the Proprietor resumed the topic of the assassins’ behavior.

“It’s like I can’t even rely on Booth anymore,” the Proprietor said. “He’s been obsessed ever since Lee arrived. He’s so pleased with himself over what he did, he won’t leave Lee alone. He follows him around like…”

The Proprietor frowned, trying to put a name to Booth’s behavior.

“He has a crush,” the Balladeer said.

“ _What?_ No, not Booth,” the Proprietor said.

“I’ve seen it,” the Balladeer said. “He has a crush on Lee. And Lee knows it.”

“I suppose you would know…” the Proprietor said.

…

Wilkes braced himself against the vanity with both hands, gasping as Lee pounded into him. The vanity wobbled and banged against the wall. He bowed his head, dizzy with mingled pleasure and shame.

“No,” Lee growled in Johnny’s ear. He grabbed Johnny’s jaw and wrenched it upwards, forcing Johnny to look back into the mirror. “I want you to look.”

Wilkes looked into his own eyes as Lee fucked him. The next thrust was hard, too hard, and he moaned.

“Oh, fuck!” Lee said suddenly, not out of pleasure but out of what sounded like fear. “No, dammit—”

In confusion, Wilkes raised his eyes to look at Lee’s reflected in the mirror. He drew in a horrified breath as the eye’s turned from Lee’s dark brown to a baby blue. The Balladeer stared at him in equal horror.

For a second they were frozen, skin to skin, before the Balladeer pulled out and quickly turned his back on Wilkes. He scrabbled until he found Lee’s boxers and jeans—he was already wearing the white T-shirt—and forced them on. He was gone in an instant.

Knees suddenly jelly, Wilkes collapsed against the vanity. He closed his eyes as a wave of revulsion passed over him.

...

“Why has Booth been cringing every time he sees you?” the Proprietor asked. “I mean, more than usual.”

“Don’t ask.” The Balladeer shuddered. He wished he could forget what had happened in Booth’s room. He pulled his legs up onto the dashboard of the bumper car in which he sat, knees to his chest. The Proprietor took a seat in the car in front of him.

“I mean you’re always unpopular, but now he looks like he’s utterly disgusted…” the Proprietor said with a smirk, leaning back.

“I know exactly how unpopular I am around here,” the Balladeer snapped. “You don’t have to remind me.”

The Proprietor put up both hands in a gesture of _don’t take it out on me._

“Since when do you care what they think?” he asked.

“Why do they worship Oswald? He isn’t just a traitor to his country, he’s even a traitor to the country he betrayed the U.S. for,” the Balladeer said with a sudden anger that the Proprietor rarely saw. “Dirty commie. And they prefer him over me?”

“You’re a condescending, holier-than-thou, flannel-wearing asshole.”

“He’s a wife-beater!”

“Like Guiteau,” the Proprietor said.

The Balladeer pinched the bridge of his nose and slumped lower in his seat. “They were so disappointed when I came back from the dead.”

“I was so relieved.”

“You were what?” the Balladeer said, frowning in disbelief.

“I was so relieved when you came back,” the Proprietor said. “You and me… we’re two sides of the same coin. The angel and the demon. It has to be the two of us. Where would I be without you?”

“You’d be the winner.”

“I’d be alone,” the Proprietor said.

The Balladeer dropped his eyes. “Well. I’m not going anywhere. I’m sure as hell not letting Lee take over.”

“I’d rather have you than him, any day,” the Proprietor said.

…

“Friends, Romans, countrymen!” Wilkes shouted grandly. He was standing on a soap box, the same one from which Czolgosz gave speeches on anarchism and Guiteau exhorted the assassins to accept Jesus into their hearts.

Squeaky was sitting on the ground in front of him, hugging her knees to his chest. Her head nodded along to the beat of his words, words that she dimly remembered from high school but had never cared about. Zangara sat next to her, deep creases between his eyebrows.

“I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do… um… what men may do, what men daily do, not knowing what they do…” He floundered, mixing _Much Ado About Nothing_ into the middle of _Julius Caesar._

Lee came out of his room, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Booth’s eyes lit up.

“Lee!” he called. “Come listen to the words of the immortal Shakespeare.”

The man in the white shirt looked him up and down, then looked at Squeaky and Zangara, then walked on without a word of acknowledgment. Hinckley came running up, three heavy books in his arms.

“Here are the books you wanted,” he said to Lee, thrusting them forward. He looked into Lee’s face for approval.

Lee looked at the titles as he accepted the books. His own mugshot looked up at him from the cover of the topmost book.

“Attention has been paid,” he said. 

He gave Hinckley a nod in thanks, smirking. The young man was handsome when he held his head high, not slouching and scowling. He walked away, the books held in one arm.

Squeaky looked up at Booth’s crestfallen face. She bounced to her feet and grabbed his hand, pulling him off the soap box.

“Come onnnnn, Wilkes,” she said, squeezing his hand tightly as his face was still turned to watch Lee go. “Forget him. You said yesterday you would dance with me. Dance with me!”

Booth looked down at her and offered a smile. “You pick the music.”

She kicked the jukebox, startling it into life, and flipped through the options. She paused over a record by the Beach Boys, then moved back in time to a collection of songs she didn’t know. One had the word “waltz” in the title, so she picked that. The audio cracked and popped, as if the song was being played on an old phonograph.

She looked back and Booth was smiling, humming along. She knew she’d picked the right song.

“Show me how to waltz,” she said, holding her arms up to loop them around his neck like she was a seventh grader at a school dance.

Gently he moved one of her hands to his shoulder, holding the other in his hand. He put a hand around her waist.

“You put your hands here, and I put my hands here…” he said as he got them into position. “And then we go _one two three, one two three…”_

Zangara watched them go round and round, Squeaky laughing whenever she trod on Booth’s foot and Booth smiling. Her red robe swirled about them.


End file.
